Page 30 of The Marquess of Temptation
"There, there," he said, stroking her hair tenderly, "It's alright to cry."
She hadn't even realised that she was crying, but once he had said the words, she felt the tears which stained her cheeks. He held her tightly, as sob after sob wracked her body, never once letting her go, or complaining about his shirt, which was quickly ruined by her tears.
"I am sorry," she whispered, once she had regained her composure, "I don't know what came over me."
"Grief," he responded quietly, "And please, don't apologise for it."
Hestia ran her hands down her dress, smoothing her skirts which had become wrinkled, and nodded her head. She wanted to thank him for his kindness, but she did not trust her voice not to falter. Just when she had thought herself alone, he had proved her wrong, and the thought was both comforting and a little unsettling.
It would be so easy to fall in love with the brooding man standing opposite her, though her head was quick to overrule her heart. Love brought nothing but trouble, she reminded herself, thinking on how unhappy her mother's final months had been.
"Shall we have a look around?" she suggested brightly, once she was certain that she would not collapse again, into floods of tears. The pair spent an hour rifling through cupboards and drawers, seeking some kind of clue, but they found nothing.
"It's hopeless," she said, sadly. "The original letter has long since disappeared, we will find nothing here, I know it."
"I'm afraid I have to agree," Alex said with a sigh, taking a seat at the old, wooden kitchen table. "Your father was not overly fond of keeping written records."
"What about this Captain Black fellow?" Hestia asked desperately. "If my father knew him well enough to have left him a sword, then perhaps he might know something that we don't."
The Marquess scratched his chin thoughtfully, nodding his head in agreement with her.
"The fellow is employed by the Duke of Everleigh," he said, "He captains one of his many ships. Perhaps we shall pay a visit to Pemberton, as a detour on the way to Penzance, and see if the Duke knows of Black's current whereabouts."
Pemberton, the Duke's Cornwall estate, was located a few miles outside of St Jarvis. It was most definitely not a "detour" from the route they would have travelled to Penzance, but rather about one hundred miles in the opposite direction.
"Thank you," Hestia said solemnly, hoping that her husband would see the gratitude in her eyes. "If I can be so bold as to ask you one more favour?"
"Anything."
"I would like to visit the place where my father is buried."
A look of alarm passed over her husband's face, though to his credit he quickly hid it.
"If that is what you wish," he said, standing up and stretching lightly, "Then that is what we shall do."
They left the cottage, locking the door behind them. Just before Hestia reached the gate, she remembered the roses that her father had planted for her mother, in his strange rockery at the side of the house.
"One moment," she whispered, picking up her skirts and making her way across the grass. There were few flowers on the rose bushes, as it was too early in the season, but those that were there Hestia took. Once she had picked enough to make a bunch that wasn't too pathetic looking, she made her way back to where Alex was waiting for her.
"Are you alright?" he asked, as he offered her his arm.
"Much better," she decided, slipping her arm through his and allowing him to lead the way.
Truro was often called the London of Cornwall --and for good reason. The carriage which brought Hestia and her husband to her father's final resting place, made its way down Walsingham Place then on to Lemon Street, where the townhouses were so fine as to rival Bath.
As they travelled further out, through warrens of close, cobblestone streets, the architecture of the houses became far less impressive. The graveyard was located on a road which led to one of the nearby tin mines. It was a dark, country road --though one could still see the spires of St. Mary's, which gave Hestia a little relief.
"'Lo, 'lo," an old, wizened man said, shuffling forward to greet Hestia and the Marquess as they alighted the carriage. "Been told to meet yer here, m'lord, m'lady. I's Jim."
The man gave an arthritic bow, that Hestia momentarily feared he may not rise from, before breaking out into a gap-toothed smile.
"I ain't never had a Marquess and a March--march...and 'is wife visiting me a'fore."
"Well," Alex had adopted the brusque manner of a titled man, "As they say, Jim, there is a first time for everything."
Hestia pretended not to notice as her husband discreetly slipped a few coins into the old man's palm. The weight of the coins in his pocket seemed to lift old Jim's spirits, for he gave an even larger grin and began to shuffle quickly into the deserted graveyard.
"Yer father is down t'back, where most of t'new lads are buried," he called, leading Hestia and Alex through the twilight. The ground was uneven and Hestia tripped once or twice, only realising afterward that what she had tripped over were the mounds of earth where men lay buried.
